Focus on Food

FOCUS ON FOOD

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Rooted in Flavor

Frost-sweetened parsnip soup

Story and Photograph by Rose Shewey

If January feels dull and bleak, you’re not tackling it right. I’ll grant you this — the lack of snow around here, which could turn a gray landscape into a twinkling fairy tale, isn’t helping. Nonetheless, there is much beauty to be found and discovered around us, inside and out.

A drop in temperature offers us a unique chance to embrace the season’s quiet rhythm. It’s a good time of year to take stock, look inward, and find stillness. Even in the dead of winter — snow or no snow — January shines bright because the kitchen takes center stage for many of us and cooking with local winter crops is a celebration in itself.

Root vegetables have historically been a staple of a cold weather diet. Parsnips in particular have great timing: They are peaking around the holidays and last into the winter months. As an added bonus, parsnips get better with the cold. When a frosty night hits the root, the plant converts starch into simple sugars, like a natural antifreeze. The side effect is a noticeable boost in sweetness.

Also known as “white carrots,” parsnips lend a deep, earthy-sweet foundation to any soup. Achieving harmony is everything, though: the bright acidity of the wine, the sharp tang of Stilton, and the saltiness of pancetta all fuse to create a balanced flavor profile in this wintry soup. 

Wintry Parsnip and Pear Soup with
Pancetta and Stilton

(Serves 4)

Ingredients

1 pound parsnips (about 2 large), peeled and cut into big chunks

2 pears, such as Bartlett or Bosc, cored and sliced into wedges

1 onion, sliced

1 tablespoon fresh thyme leaves

3 tablespoons olive oil

8 ounces pancetta, chopped

1 celery stalk, sliced

1/2 leek spear, halved lengthways and thinly sliced

2-3 garlic cloves, crushed

3/4 cup white wine

4-5 cups chicken or vegetable broth

2 bay leaves

1/2 cup heavy cream (optional)

Salt and pepper, to taste

Crumbled Stilton cheese, for serving

Directions

Preheat oven to 350 F. In a large bowl, toss parsnips, pears, onion and thyme with the olive oil and spread out in a roasting pan. Sprinkle with salt and pepper, cover with a lid or foil and bake for about 30 minutes. Remove lid or foil, add veggies and pears, then continue roasting for an additional 30 minutes. Heat a large pot over medium heat and cook pancetta for about 5 minutes. Drain off excess fat, if needed. Add celery and leek and cook for 2-3 minutes, then add garlic and cook for another 2-3 minutes, stirring frequently. Pour in wine and cook until the liquid is reduced by about half. Add 4 cups broth and roasted veggies together with the bay leaves. Allow the soup to simmer for 20-25 minutes — add more broth if liquid cooks down too much. Remove bay leaves and blend or pulse in batches. Add the soup back to the pot and stir in cream, if desired. Taste soup and adjust seasoning. Serve with crumbled Stilton or any other soup toppings you enjoy.

Omnivorous Reader

OMNIVOROUS READER

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Sense of Urgency

The stories that need telling

By Stephen E. Smith

It happens to every writer. The moment comes, sometimes sooner than later, when it’s clear that he or she won’t live long enough to write every story that needs telling. The unwritten stories can be offered as spoken anecdotes, which, of course, vaporize the moment they’re uttered, so getting the stories down in print becomes a source of energy and inspiration. Pat Riviere-Seel’s collection, Because I Did Not Drown, derives its urgency from her desire to have the stories remembered — and to be remembered herself. “How long will the work of art last? Who will remember the artist . . . ?” she writes in her essay, “Unknown Artist.”

Reviere-Seel is the author of four poetry books, most notably the well-received The Serial Killer’s Daughter, which was published in 2009 by Charlotte-based Main Street Rag Press. Because I Did Not Drown explores both the exceptional and mundane — “kitchen talk,” the need for perseverance, the joy of pets (in this case cats), a stray fig plant growing by the back stoop, gun control, the loss of old friends, food lovingly prepared, an enthusiasm for jogging, “disenfranchised grief,” extraterrestrials, etc. Each prose chapter is written in straightforward journalistic prose and intended to convey helpful insights into contemporary life.

She begins her collection by recounting her personal experience with the COVID shutdown. She ends the book by detailing the ill effects of the pandemic’s aftermath, topics few writers have tackled (Sean Dempsey’s A Sad Collection of Short Stories, Cheap Parables, Amusing Anecdotes, & Covid-Inspired Bad Poetry is an amusing exception). This reluctance to write about the COVID experience can be attributed to what readers and writers might perceive as proximity aversion: the shock of COVID is still too much with us, and we’ve yet to sort out its spiritual and political implications. Reviere-Seel takes up the subject head-on: “But as the pandemic stretched into a second year, I became more frustrated, angry, and cranky. I missed my poetry group. I missed my friends. . . . We stayed home. We wore masks. We stayed six feet apart. We were grateful to be alive. . . . What had begun as a public health issue became a political issue. The usual anti-vaccine talk mingled with the talk of ‘the government can’t tell me what to do.’” Her concluding essay, “After the Pandemic,” suggests that kindness is the only possible remedy for a virus that continues to mutate: “Be kind. Most of us did not want to infect our family, our friends, our neighbors, or the checkout clerk at the grocery store who showed up for work every day. Genuine kindness is a balm, a gift, a grace.”

In her chapter “Talking About It,” she is straightforward about her struggles with breast cancer. “I didn’t talk about my experience with breast cancer,” she writes, but the death of an aunt who ignored a lump in her breast inspired her to share her experience. “Early detection and medical advances in treatment have meant that breast cancer is no longer the death sentence so many feared fifty years ago.” Her interaction with the medical community will be of particular interest. When she was denied an immediate needle biopsy, she reacted appropriately. “Nice was not working so I threw a fit, a nice-woman-goes-feral southern ‘hissy fit.’ A redhead-gone-rogue tantrum . . .  I was paying for a service, medical care, and I wanted — no, demanded — a say in when and how that service was delivered.” Her story is a paradigm for all women and men who find themselves caught up in our often lethargic and convoluted medical system.

The course of her disease followed a predictable path, but she made the necessary decisions to preserve her life. The description of her battle with breast cancer is timely, honest, reassuring and possibly lifesaving.

Following each of the prose passages, a poem explicates or explores the theme of the preceding chapter. The poems are well written and could stand on their own as a chapbook. “After the Diagnosis,” for example, follows the chapter on breast cancer:

There are nights — more

than you ever thought you could endure —

when sleep will not come

your thoughts — no, not thoughts —

the deep well of unknowing appears

endless. You try summoning

visions of sunrise, a shoreline, bare feet

running across packed sand. But morning

fog covers this foreign landscape.

Everything you knew for sure yesterday

washed away with the tide, predictable

too the magical thinking, maybe. Abandon

the dock, row your way into the nightmare, further

out is the only way back.

The use of verse to add emotional impact to the short personal essays may strike some readers as unnecessary. At the very least, the transition from journalistic prose to poetry is complex, requiring a complete shift in sensibility and focus. Nevertheless, she forces readers to grapple with many of our most vexing problems. 

Tea Leaf Astrologer

TEA LEAF ASTROLOGER

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Capricorn

(December 22 – January 19)

Having been in “go” mode since birth, you may not understand the degree to which your natural drive and goal-crushing prowess triggers those around you. This isn’t to say you should play small (you’re incapable) or slow down (hoofers gonna hoof it). Rather, when the shade-throwers cast their slights and snubs, try not to adopt their perceived failures as your own. This month, with Saturn in Pisces amplifying your softer side, embrace it. 

Tea leaf “fortunes” for the rest of you:

Aquarius (January 20 – February 18)

Now, think bigger. 

Pisces (February 19 – March 20)

Cancel the membership. 

Aries (March 21 – April 19) 

Consider a new deodorant.

Taurus (April 20 – May 20)

Your cuticles require some attention. 

Gemini (May 21 – June 20)

Try subbing sugar for dates. 

Cancer (June 21 – July 22)

Baby steps, darling. 

Leo (July 23 – August 22)

Make time for a morning stretch. 

Virgo (August 23 – September 22)  

Keep the receipt. 

Libra (September 23 – October 22)

Two words: wardrobe overhaul.

Scorpio (October 23 – November 21)

Ever heard of a dry brush? 

Sagittarius (November 22 – December 21)

Dance like nobody’s gawking.

Dissecting a Cocktail

DISSECTING A COCKTAIL

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100 Year Old Cigar

Story and Photograph by Tony Cross

Let’s start 2026 off with a bang, or the strike of a match, if you will. The 100 Year Old Cigar was created by Maks Pazuniak at the bar Jupiter Disco in Bushwick, New York. Carey Jones includes it in her book Brooklyn Bartender: A Modern Guide to Cocktails and Spirits published in 2016.

One of the qualities of Pazuniak’s creations is how well he blends myriad spirits that might intimidate others. He showcased those skills in Beta Cocktails (the book he cowrote with Kirk Estopinal) and again with his 100 Year Old Cigar cocktail. The backbone of this drink is an aged rum — I use Ron del Barrilito’s 3 Star — that has more body and depth than the typical light rum. The modifiers are Laphroaig 10 Year Scotch, Cynar and Benedictine. On paper, this cocktail looks intense — indeed, these flavors are juxtaposed: Laphroaig is very peaty, Cynar is savory and bitter, and the French liqueur, Benedictine, is sweet with notes of baking spices and honey. Throwing them together with an aged rum lets the ingredients shine while the rum still holds its own without overpowering the modifiers. After stirring this and pouring it into a coupe, give a few spritzes of absinthe over the cocktail. The result is richly boozy, with layers of flavor that echo the notes of a fine cigar. It makes a great nightcap or perhaps a celebratory toast for surviving another year. 

Specifications

1 3/4 ounces aged rum

1/2 ounce Benedictine

1/2 ounce Cynar

1/4 ounce Laphroaig 10 Year

Absinthe

Execution

Combine all ingredients, sans absinthe, in a chilled mixing vessel. Add ice and stir until cocktail is ice-cold and properly diluted. Strain into a chilled cocktail coupe. Using an atomizer, spritz absinthe over the cocktail a few times. 

Hometown

HOMETOWN

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Grit and Grace

Remembering a boyhood hero

By Bill Fields

This college basketball season is hitting me in a different way, and I can’t blame it on the transfer portal or other tradition-wrecking aspects of the current era, as dispiriting as they might be.

Larry Miller died last May, at 79, and it felt as if an important piece of my childhood went with the legendary Tar Heel, who starred for coach Dean Smith in the 1960s and led Carolina to two straight Final Fours.

I read something not long ago that one’s deepest bonds with sports are rooted in associations which date to elementary and middle school days. Sports certainly have never been a bigger passion for me than they were when I was that age and beginning to play as well as becoming a devoted fan.

About the time I was just starting to digest the daily sports section, three players in three sports were drawing my fullest attention: Willie Mays, Sonny Jurgensen and Miller. As much as I loved the star centerfielder who could do it all for the San Francisco Giants and the pure-passing quarterback of the Washington Redskins, Miller captivated me most of all.

Playing on the other side of the country, Mays was mostly a name in a box score. If the rooftop antenna was doing its job, Jurgensen regularly showed up on our television on Sunday afternoons in the fall. But during the three seasons he was on the UNC basketball team — freshmen weren’t allowed to compete on varsity teams until the early 1970s — Miller was a more frequent presence in my sports universe. I read about him in the paper, watched him on TV, and listened to his exploits on radio.

Miller filled gyms across Pennsylvania’s Lehigh Valley as a prep star. His hometown, Catasauqua, was one of the first far-flung locales to stick in my mind. Convincing Miller to come to Chapel Hill after he graduated from high school in 1964 was vital to Smith, whose early years at the helm were rocky. More than a hundred colleges had offered scholarships to the 6-foot-4 forward, whose jumping ability allowed him to play bigger.

To the coeds who flooded the UNC Sports Information office with fan mail for their handsome favorite, Miller was a matinee idol. For a young boy who couldn’t get enough basketball and loved the Tar Heels, Miller suited up on the Carmichael Auditorium hardwood at the perfect time to fuel my hoops obsession. I would root hard for other Carolina stars, from Charlie Scott to George Karl to Phil Ford, but Miller stood alone as my first basketball crush.

The Tar Heels didn’t have their names on the back of their jerseys in those days, but there was no mistaking No. 44 in light blue and white. Miller was an effective blend of grit and grace on the court, an excellent outside shooter who also had a crafty way of driving to the basket and scoring on scoop-style layups after faking out the opposition with his creative moves. Being a righty, I couldn’t emulate Miller’s left-handed shots, but I otherwise tried to be him around our rickety backyard goal or in Saturday morning youth-league games in the Southern Pines gym. There were thousands of other kids in their Converses or Keds around North Carolina just like me.

As a junior, Miller made 13 of 14 shots in a win over Duke in the final of the 1967 ACC Tournament, and the Tar Heels became the first Smith-coached team to reach the Final Four, losing to Dayton in the semifinals. ACC Player of the Year in 1967 and ’68, Miller was a consensus first-team All-American in 1968, when Carolina repeated as conference champs and again advanced to the Final Four, losing badly in the championship game to Lew Alcindor-led UCLA.

The Tar Heels’ 23-point loss to the Bruins didn’t dampen my enthusiasm for wanting to see Miller in person later that spring at an exhibition game of barnstorming college seniors at the Pinehurst gym. Not only did my dad take me to the game, but at halftime he also bought me an autographed 8-by-10 glossy of Miller at the souvenir stand. I’ve held on to that $3.00 picture all this time, and when I heard Miller had died, I retrieved it from a box and looked at it for a good long while, remembering.

Birdwatch

BIRDWATCH

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Cold Customers

Return of the dark-eyed juncos

By Susan Campbell

“The snowbirds are back!” No, not the thin-blooded retirees: They won’t be back until spring. These are the little black-and-white sparrowlike birds that appear under feeders when the mercury dips here in central North Carolina. They can be found in flocks, several dozen strong in some places. And, in spite of what you might think, they are far from dependent on bird seed in winter.

Dark-eyed juncos are a diverse and widely distributed species. Six populations are recognized across the U.S., Canada and Mexico. Slight but noticeable variations in appearance constitute the difference in these populations. Some have white wing bars while others sport a reddish back and the birds in the high elevations of the Rockies are recognized by extensive pinkish feathering on their flanks. Our eastern birds are known as “slate-colored juncos” for their dark brown to gray feathering. They are accustomed to cold temperatures whether in summer or winter. As with most migrant songbirds, their migratory behavior is based on food availability, not weather. Flocks will fly southward, stopping where they find abundant grasses and forbs. They will continue on once the food plants have been stripped of seed.

Dark-eyed juncos can be found throughout North America at different times of the year. During the breeding season, juncos are seen at high elevation across the boreal forests nesting in thick evergreens. Our familiar slate-colored variety breeds as close as the high elevations of the Appalachians. You can find them easily around Blowing Rock and Boone year-round. These nonmigrants actually have shorter wingspans as a result of their sedentary existence. Watch for male juncos advertising their territories up high in fir or spruce trees. They will utter sharp chirps and may string together a series of rapid call notes that sound like the noise emitted by a “phaser” of Star Trek fame.

In winter, flocks congregate in open and brushy habitats. Juncos are distinguished from other sparrows by their clean markings: dark heads with small, pale, conical bills, pale bellies and white outer tail feathers. Females have a browner wash and less of a demarcation between belly and breast than males. They hop around and feed on small seeds close to ground level. Some individuals can be quite tame once they become familiar with a specific place and particular people. Juncos do communicate frequently, using sharp trills to keep the flock together. They will not hesitate to dive for deep cover when alarmed.

So, the next time you come upon a flock along the roadside or notice juncos under your feeder, take a close look. These little birds will be with us only a few months, until day length begins to increase and they head back to the boreal forests from whence they came.

Almanac January 2026

ALMANAC

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January

By Ashley Walshe

January is an ancient remembering; a rush of cold; the crunch, crunch, quiet of naked woods.

This new day, sunlight caressing the frigid earth, inspiration knocks with the clarity of woodpecker drumming against towering pine. Bundled in layers, you lace up your boots, leash up the dog, make for the leaf-littered trail in the open, unobtrusive forest.

Crisp air fills your lungs with a sense of wildness, each breath sharpening your instincts, expanding your horizon, deepening your kinship with the natural world. As dead leaves rustle beneath feet and paws, the wisdom of animal awakens within you. This isn’t just a walk in the wild. It’s a homecoming.

Despite the bleakness of this winter landscape, the sting of the cold, you feel a surge of bold and blissful aliveness. At once, emptiness becomes threshold of infinite possibility. At once, the unseen sings out.

Opossum tracks spell midnight wanderings. A circling hawk graces a vibrant blue sky. Dog presses warm snout to damp earth and listens.

You listen, too, noting the rhythm of your breath, the cadence of your footsteps, the distant crack of hoof upon fallen branch.

Beyond a young beech tree, its pale leaves suspended like a murmuration of ghosts, half a dozen white-tailed deer stand invisible against the sepia backdrop. But here’s the thing: A veil has been lifted; your vision, clarified. You can sense the wild stirrings of these hollow woods. Your breath in the cold is living proof.

Keeping it Real(istic)

The New Year has a way of making us believe that anything is possible — and why not? But we do love to set lofty (read delusional) goals for ourselves, don’t we?

Who thought this was a good idea?

The ancient Babylonians were perhaps the first. Some 4,000 years ago, during their 12-day Akitu festival, “promises to the gods” were made to earn their favor or repay debts. The ancient Romans adopted this ritual to honor Janus (god of beginnings, transitions and time), while early Christians reflected on past transgressions and resolved to “be better” at the start of the bright, new year.

“New Year’s resolutions” entered modern vernacular by the 19th century, becoming a largely secular practice. This year, should you make a promise to yourself, earn your own good favor by breaking large goals into smaller steps. And, whatever your commitment, do it from a place of genuine desire — not just because you think you should.

New Year, New Earth

Suppose we resolved to live in greater harmony with the Earth this new year. Small changes can make a big impact. Below are a few suggestions to deepen your relationship with the natural world and, perhaps, reduce your carbon footprint. Feel free to make your own vow, of course. This is strictly between you and Mama E.

  • Wake up to watch the sunrise
  • Support your local farmers market
  • BYO reusable shopping bags
  • Choose native plants and pollinators for the garden 
  • Ditch bottled water (and single-use plastics) 
  • Visit your local nature preserves 
  • Spend more time barefoot on the earth  
  • Pause to watch more
    sunsets 

Out of the Blue

OUT OF THE BLUE

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Ode to Snoball

A kitty worth the scratch

By Deborah Salomon

I am a lifelong animal lover/rescuer/advocate. I don’t just donate. I adopt. Since the 1970s I have opened my door and heart to one, two or more hungry, cold, injured, pregnant kitties at a time. Three years ago, when my precious black satin Lucky and fussbudget Missy passed on, I decided it was time to retire. Then, on a frigid January night, a pure white apparition with blue eyes and pink mouth appeared at my door. Her family had moved on, left her behind, I later learned. I opened the door. She crept inside. End — no, beginning — of story.

I named her, obviously, Snoball.

I allow myself just one kitty column a year, in January. The subject is usually behavior. Because cats could not be more fascinating, even when destroying furniture.

Snoball, a princess of incredible beauty, is also a chatterbox: She talks. With inflections that, I imagine, express her opinions on many things, from a big black beetle scurrying across the floor to my reluctance to let her climb into the fridge crisper. Snoball likes lettuce. Even better, she likes chewing the plastic around the lettuce. Maybe cats know their people are polluting the world with plastic. They’re just trying to help.

Other times her chatter sounds like two grannies outbragging each other re: grandkids’ achievements. Snoball plays the lawyer card, which always wins.

I know from experience that two cats are easier, although more expensive, to live with than one. They keep each other busy. Ever noticed how noses twitch silently as they watch stupid commercials on TV? If it’s a “fixed” male-female duo the gal usually calls the shots. Sometimes she develops a fetish. I once had a kitty named Sophie who had a corn fetish. She would attack the grocery bags I brought in, looking for an ear of corn. Woe was me if the supermarket failed in December. I would put the ear on the floor where Sophie covered it, like nesting with kittens. She lost interest when the husks dried up.

Cats are tricky eaters — a problem since their food is so varied and expensive. Instead of canned I usually buy boneless chicken on sale, boil, chop fine and freeze with broth in batches, which I thaw and mix with high-quality kibble. Snoball greets this yummy meal with mixed reactions, which include sniffing, walking away, waiting to see if anything better’s forthcoming before returning to lick-’n’-pick.

But if a meal is late, she lets me know with a dirty look and snide remark. I guess she forgot about being outside, cold and hungry.

Despite a reputation for aloofness, kitties do know how to initiate and return love. Snoball’s signal is the long-handled brush. Brushing puts her in a trance. So does stretching out across my lap for the rubdown, which releases a cloud of white fur requiring a special rake to pry it off the carpet.

When not napping on my sofa or upholstered chairs, Snoball, an inside only kitty, follows the sun around five window perches. Two overlook bird feeders. She chatters the squirrels away, much preferring bird antics, which she follows like a tennis match.

Only once did she attempt an escape . . . in the pouring rain. Lesson learned.

Still unlearned . . . to keep those wicked claws furled. My hands and arms are black and blue with bruises, just from play, of course. But when Snoball wants to play, “no” is not an answer. Her favorite nip is a bare ankle. I bought an expensive hopping toy for distraction. She bestowed a deprecating look and swatted my knee.

But knowing she’ll be at the door when I arrive home, and at my feet when I climb under the covers, is worth a few drops of blood.

Because she’s my Snoball . . . and I love her. 

Sporting Life

SPORTING LIFE

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Restoring the Soul

Pausing for a solitary side trip

By Tom Bryant

It’s ironic that three days before Thanksgiving in 2024, a time of celebration and great revelry, I was told that I almost died.

It all started in July of that year. Now I’m pretty much a healthy, in-good-shape guy. Always have been from early childhood to what is often laughingly referred to in today’s society as geezerhood. Played sports in high school and college, joined the Marines in a fit of finding myself. I found myself alright. The Marine Corps taught me in a short time to look after my body. I’ve fished and hunted and camped from Florida to Alaska always in good condition and good humor. I take a multivitamin and a 10-milligram Simvastatin daily, and that’s the extent of my pills.

So what happened? Coming home from the beach one Sunday morning, I noticed a recurring sharp pain in my lower abdomen. It went away and I thought no more about it. I had my annual physical coming up in a week or so, and I figured I’d tell the doctor about it then.

After several tests, my local physician referred me to the urology department at First Health. The results from an exploratory surgical operation weren’t that good. Linda, my bride, was there with me in the recovery room and she told me tearfully that I had cancer.

There. Those three magic words that will turn anyone’s world upside down. “You Have Cancer.”

I remember I was kind of dopey recovering from the anesthesia, and the first thing that entered my mind was, “This is gonna play hell with early fall fishing.”

Later, as the reality of the situation began to sink in, I was upset that not only was I in for a bad time, but Linda was going to have to suffer with me. I remembered some of the stages that a new cancer patient goes through: fear, anxiety, sadness, anger. Sure, I had some of those feelings but I made up my mind that just like many other adventures in my life, I was gonna consider this another hazardous occurrence, a learning experience, and play it to the hilt.

The folks at First Health referred me to the specialists at Duke, and I was off and running. Linda and I made appointments to meet with the recommended oncologist and surgeon bright and early on a Tuesday morning in August. I remember the day because we cancelled a beach trip scheduled for that week.

The people at Duke have a cancer center bigger than any health facility I’ve ever been in. The entire building, all five floors, is dedicated to cancer patients, and from the valet folks who park your car to the individuals in charge of information who point you in the right direction, we never felt out of place.

We met with the oncologist first, and she laid out a program of chemotherapy, about two months’ worth, that would take place before the surgery. We then met with the surgeon who explained the procedure and what I could expect during the recovery period. When I asked what would happen if I decided to let nature take its course, he simply replied, “You’ll have about nine months.”

We made arrangements and appointments, going along with all the recommendations from the experts, collected our car from valet parking and headed home.

“We’ve got a couple weeks before the chemo stuff starts. What say we go to the beach?” I asked Linda as I dodged in and out of the breakneck drivers who seem to hang around the high-speed highways.

“I vote for that,” she replied. I could tell that our recent experience with the doctors was a lot for her to take in. Me too.

The beach was wonderful. I didn’t even carry fishing equipment, and we left the little Airstream at home. All we did was hang out, reminisce about old times, and enjoy good seafood. We stayed at one of our favorite hotels right on the beach. We talked and talked and talked. Always in the back of our minds was the upcoming ordeal and the best way to handle it.

My brother had passed away two years before from lung cancer, so we were not entering our upcoming travail totally unprepared. We knew what could happen.

Our son, Tommy, was constantly in touch, not wanting to be too far from all the decisions. By now, the word was out about my health situation and the phone started ringing off the hook — not my phone, mostly Linda’s. Family and friends wanted to know what they could do to help. I was amazed at all the good wishes that came in from friends everywhere.

In September our ordeal began. Although I didn’t have a lot of side effects, chemotherapy exhausted me. I didn’t lose all my hair but I did lose a lot of weight. The folks at Duke were amazing. Never have I met such caring people.

I had to bail from chemo right before the last infusion. It seems that the chemicals in the stuff not only kill cancer but can also destroy hearing. The oncologist said enough’s enough. The surgery was in about two weeks.

The next day I decided to ride out to the old tobacco farm that my good friend Joe Rosy owns. He lets me have access to the farm to bird hunt. The part of the land I use is about 150 acres located close to Drowning Creek. It’s where I go to restore my soul and remember what living is all about.

Usually I’ll park the Cruiser and walk, but with my energy at ebb I rolled down the windows and, at crawl speed, drove around the familiar property. There was the cut in the pines that led to where a used up sawmill once stood. Mackie, my little yellow lab jumped a pair of quail every time we went to the spot. I never did shoot — just seeing them fly was enough.

On the corner of the pine stand that Joe uses to harvest pine straw was a tall longleaf that I would sit under, waiting for the evening flight of dove. I drove on around the harvested soybeans and took the minuscule path that serves as a road between the two barns. At the end of the road, surrounded by pines, is a small field of maybe 10 acres. I got my first turkey there, hunkered down at the tree line. He was a big one, 21 pounds.

I pulled the truck up under a big white oak, took a water bottle from the cooler. I always carry a portable folding chair in the back of the Cruiser, and I decided to sit for a spell. Several years ago, I sat in this same spot on the day I carried Mackie to the vet to have her put down. She was past help, in her old age, hips gone and suffering. The vet said it was time. My dogs have always been family and that special, sad time was locked in my memory. On that day there had been a big red-tailed hawk circling the woods down close to the pond and, as I sat there kicked back, sipping water, I saw a red-tail flying in exactly the same location. Wonder if that’s the same bird, I thought. Naw, too long ago. Could be an offspring though.

In a little while, watching and taking in the peacefulness of the little farm, I became worried that Linda might be concerned, and I decided to head on back home. The big cancer operation was scheduled and our hands would be full.

As I eased out to the main road and got out to close the gate, I could still see the hawk. He was wheeling about, out over the fields now, climbing higher and higher. I watched until he was almost out of sight, then I got in the Cruiser and headed down the road toward home.

Golftown Journal

GOLFTOWN JOURNAL

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A Quick Nine

The Pinehurst experience

By Lee Pace

In June I will complete revolution No. 69 around the sun. As a new year dawns, it’s natural to pause, reflect and be grateful for what you’ve experienced. One very satisfying and interesting compartment of my professional life has been chronicling golf in Pinehurst — beginning in 1987, when I quit my last real job to forage an existence amid words, photos, paper and ink (later adding packets and protocols and something called HTTP).

So, I’m lucky indeed for having been able to write my Quick Nine stories of the Sandhills.

The 1980s/’90s Resurrection of Pinehurst — First there was the 75-year era of the founding Tufts family in Pinehurst. Then the awkward and clumsy decade of Diamondhead. Then in marched Robert Dedman Sr., of Dallas. “Partner, I think this place is worth saving. This is one of those places you just can’t duplicate — it’s kind of like buying the St. Andrews of America,” Dedman said. It took time, money, astute leadership and vision. Gradually, Pinehurst once again became a player in American golf.

Payne Winning in 1999 — No one knew exactly what to expect when the USGA awarded Pinehurst No. 2 its first U.S. Open. Would the crowds come? Would the town support the influx? Would the golf course stand up? Those questions and many more were answered with shiny gold stars, the leading domino falling toward No. 2 being the first course designated as a U.S. Open Anchor Site. The drama and emotional wattage of Stewart rolling in a 20-foot putt on the last stroke of the championship was just icing on the cake.

The Life of Peggy Kirk Bell — She certainly knew how to play golf, having won the Titleholders and the North & South Women’s Amateur, and having been a founding member of the LPGA Tour. But Peggy and her husband, Warren “Bullet” Bell, learned the hospitality business as they went along, and Peggy turned an impromptu golf lesson to a lady guest in the 1950s into a thriving golf instruction business that in November 2025 saw Pine Needles Lodge & Golf Club hosting its 59th Couples Golf Jamboree. Her spirit permeates the Sandhills today.

The Last Amateurs — My 1991 book Pinehurst Stories was built around interviews and chapters on 18 elite names in golf who had a good story to tell from their golf lives around Pinehurst. Hands down the highlight of that research was interviewing and getting to know Billy Joe Patton, Harvie Ward and Bill Campbell — three elite players from the mid-1900s with magnificent amateur records. Patton cried talking about his Pinehurst experience. Ward’s eyes twinkled. And Campbell spoke with a notable degree of eloquence. All three loved the Sandhills.

Ben Hogan’s First Win — Hogan was winless in eight years on the pro golf tour in March 1940 and just about to call it quits. A club pro job was waiting for him at home in Fort Worth. But the volcano detonated in the North & South Open on the hallowed ground of No. 2, with Hogan shooting a tournament record 277. From there he went to Greensboro and Asheville and won two more tournaments, breaking par in 11 of 12 rounds. The world of golf never knew what hit it.

The Coore/Crenshaw Project — “This will be the smartest thing we’ve done or the dumbest,” said Pinehurst owner Bob Dedman Jr. in 2010. Dedman had just given golf architects Bill Coore and Ben Crenshaw license to dial the clock back on his No. 2 jewel to an era broadly defined as “The Golden Age” between Donald Ross’ death in 1948 and Pinehurst’s sale to the Diamondhead Corporation in 1970. It was a brilliant move indeed, restoring the course to the gnarly look of Ross’ homeland in Scotland.

The Changes in the Village (Not) — Pat Corso, the president and CEO of Pinehurst Resort from 1987-2003, looked at a vintage black and white aerial photo of the village of Pinehurst one day in the early 1990s. The photo was taken probably in the 1950s. “Except for the cars, it looks exactly the same,” he said. It would today as well. Marty McKenzie, a lifelong Pinehurst resident and businessman, likes to call it “The Magic Bubble.” There is still nothing garish or gaudy inside that bubble.

The Walking Game —  Pinehurst owner Richard Tufts once said there would never be golf carts in Pinehurst. They defied the spirit of the old Scottish game, he said. Of course, Tufts and his lieutenants bowed to market forces in the 1950s and ’60s and the resort followed national trends over the coming decades that sadly saw those infernal contraptions as the default mode to playing the same. Happily, those trends reversed as I chronicled in my 2021 book, Good Walks. Today at many Sandhills courses you can walk-and-carry, take a trolley or hire a caddie — golf as it should be.

The Dynamic Decade — It was a bold and drastic move for sure when Coore & Crenshaw stripped out all that lush green Bermuda grass on No. 2 and in its stead melded sand and wire grass and jagged edges. That set the template for a crescendo of adventurous change over the next dozen years — The Cradle short course, the rebuild of No. 4, the transformation of an abandoned steam plant into the Pinehurst Brewery, the launch of the satellite golf destination south of town with No. 10 (open) and No. 11 (under construction), and the USGA setting up shop with offices and the World Golf Hall of Fame.

It’s been quite a run. It’s been a blast to have a front row seat.